A Wreath of Snow (16 page)

He tore off the paper—rather eagerly, she thought—and then sat back with a look of astonishment. “However did you know? I’ve been wishing I had a scarf around my neck since leaving Glasgow. And such a fine scarf too.”

Meg warmed at his praise. “I hope it’s long enough.”

“I would almost say it was made for me.” Gordon cocked one eyebrow. “But since you had time neither to shop nor to knit, I can only assume it was made for another man—”

“And he shall remain nameless,” Mrs. Campbell said pointedly. “It was made for you, Mr. Shaw. Whether or not Margaret
was aware of that when she held the needles in her hands, you can be sure the Almighty knew.”

Meg caught her mother’s eye, then mouthed the words,
Bless you
.

Gordon stood, thanking her parents with a sincerity of word and expression that Meg found endearing. “Forgive me for leaving so quickly …”

When his voice trailed off, Meg followed his gaze.

Alan waited in the doorway, his hat bunched in his hands, his face chapped and red. Every word he spoke seemed chiseled out of ice. “I have nowhere else to go.”

His mother was beside him at once. “This is your home, Alan. You are always welcome here.” She ushered him into the dining room, quietly giving instructions to Clara. A wet cloth for his hands and hot soup for his supper were soon produced.

Meg rose to stand beside Gordon, grateful for his strength at such a moment. “I am glad you came back to us, Alan.”

He didn’t look up, but his spoon paused for a moment. It was enough.

Meg was not surprised by her mother’s tender care. But her father’s words were a revelation.

“We are glad you are home, Alan. But there is much to be done to regain our trust and restore your good name.”

Her brother looked up from his plate, clearly taken aback.

“When you’ve eaten your fill,” Father continued, “we shall
discuss how you might seek gainful employment and so contribute to our household.”

Meg wanted to cheer, to applaud, to kiss the cheek of a quiet father who’d suddenly discovered his voice. Where had he found such courage? Such strength? She knew the answer.

Time would not allow even a moment of reflection, as the mantel clock reminded her. Minutes later she was standing at the door with Gordon and her parents, preparing to bid them farewell.

“You will write to me,” her mother said, her lower lip trembling.

Meg nodded. “And I will visit as often as I can so I might see how Alan is doing.” She looked toward the dining room. “I confess I am more worried about him now than I was when I thought he was still suffering from his injury.”

“Aye,” her father agreed. “It will be some time before your brother is truly well.”

Go to him
. Meg felt a tugging deep within her.
Forgive him, and comfort him
.

She excused herself, then slowly walked back into the dining room. Alan sat alone, his head bent, his plate empty. “Alan.” Her voice broke. “Alan … I’m so sorry.” Meg knelt beside his chair and eased her arms around him. “I wish your life had been different. But it still can be. And with God’s help, it will be.”

“No one will understand,” he said, his voice strained. “No one will ever forgive me.”

“I do.” Meg pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “I forgive you.”

When she lifted her head, Alan looked like a wounded creature, his eyes clouded with pain. She kissed his cheek, then stood, reluctant to leave him in such a state. “Mother and Father will take good care of you. They always have.” She smoothed her hand across his matted hair. “I am your sister, Alan, and I will always love you. Never forget that.”

When he looked away, she knew he’d heard her.

Gordon appeared at the door. “Pardon me, but the train …”

“Aye.” She nodded and followed him out, then bade her parents farewell once more before she and Gordon left for the railway station. By the time they reached Station Road, they were practically running.

The same wavy-haired booking clerk greeted Meg at the window and exchanged her old ticket for a new one.

“Sir, I have a trunk—”

“Aye, you do.” He pointed across the office to a familiar black trunk with brass fittings. “I’ll have it aboard the four forty-three. Make haste, miss.”

Gordon exchanged his ticket as well, retrieved his traveling bag, then escorted her across the platform and onto the train. “I
see our seats are spoken for.” He nodded toward the front of the carriage where a family had claimed the first two rows.

“No matter,” Meg said blithely. She picked a seat in the middle, making sure the one across from it was vacant.

But Gordon sat next to her instead and nudged her toward the window with his shoulder. “An excellent choice.”

Oh my
. When Meg looked about the carriage, no one seemed the least bit interested in the unmarried couple daring to sit side by side. “You are sure—”

“Very sure, Miss Campbell.” He brushed her hand so gently she might not have noticed. Except it was Gordon.

He lowered his head until it touched hers. “Glasgow to Edinburgh is one hour by rail. That’s all that will separate us. A minor inconvenience, easily swept aside for the price of a return ticket. Aye?”

“Aye.” Meg closed her eyes, overwhelmed. He made everything seem possible. And indeed it was.

Gordon squeezed her hand as if he understood and felt just the same. “In the Highlands they say, ‘Christmas without snow is poor fare.’ ”

“Is that so?” Meg looked up at him. “Then we have enjoyed a rich Christmas indeed.”

L
ike many stories, this one began with a book—
World Railways of the Nineteenth Century
—picked up for a song at a used-book shop, then devoured for months until steam came pouring out. How I do love trains! As for the novella’s title, a wreath is not only something displayed during the festive season; it’s also the Scots word for “a bank or drift of snow.” Once I discovered that juicy tidbit, the story quickly took shape.

Of all the years of Victoria’s long reign, I chose 1894 because
it was exceptionally cold and snowy that December with a twelve-week frost beginning at Christmastide. Two resource books, both published in 1894, proved to be helpful as well:
Murray’s Handbook for Travellers in Scotland
and
Mountain, Moor and Loch
, with pen-and-pencil sketches of the West Highland Railway “made on the spot.” Love it.

We also lost two significant literary figures in 1894, both mentioned within these pages: Robert Louis Stevenson died on December 3 and Christina Rossetti on December 29. The epigraph here was taken from Stevenson’s novel
The Master of Ballantrae
, which Meg briefly read on the train. Christina Rossetti, whose words appear as an epigraph for chapter 3, wrote “In the Bleak Midwinter” in response to a request from
Scribner’s Monthly
for a Christmas poem.

To be certain our yuletide celebration in Victorian Scotland was historically accurate, I turned again and again to Marjory Greig’s wonderful resource,
The Midwinter Music: A Scottish Anthology for the Festive Season
. If you love that time period as much as I do, the British television production
Bramwell
might be your cup of tea. Set in 1895 London, the series aired on the PBS show
Masterpiece Theatre
a century later and is now available on DVD. The young Dr. Eleanor Bramwell served as a fine role model for our independent-minded Meg Campbell.

It was pure joy to spend a research week in Stirling, Scotland,
with my daughter, Lilly, exploring the hilly, crooked streets, snapping photos, watching
Downton Abbey
, and brainstorming about the Campbells of Albert Place. Those handsome sandstone cottages, built in the early years of Victoria’s reign, are still standing across from the public halls, which became known as the Albert Halls in 1896.

If you’ve lived in or visited Stirling, you may be familiar with Allan Park South Church on Dumbarton Road, where Meg and her family worship on Christmas morning. Because we have a character named Alan and the Campbells reside in the adjoining King’s Park neighborhood, I chose to shorten the name to Park Church for
A Wreath of Snow
. The church, built in the mid-nineteenth century, is very much a going concern, and the many-paned rose window is indeed glorious.

Many thanks go to Simon Dawdry, a talented artist in Scotland, for reproducing our vintage Stirling Railway Station in pen and ink. And to my New Zealand friend Marlene Dunsmore, a heartfelt hug for sharing a family wedding portrait that perfectly captured our Gordon and Meg and inspired me greatly. Such a handsome couple!

Several editors and encouragers deserve extra kudos for their patience and support: Laura Barker, Carol Bartley, and Sara Fortenberry, your guidance is ever a blessing. My two favorite in-house editors—dear husband, Bill, and our talented
son, Matt—kindly put their red pens to the first draft, and my favorite retired Scottish antiquarian bookseller, Benny Gillies, had a go at the second draft.

Naturally, readers like
you
are why I do what I do. I hope you’ll visit the special fiction website I’ve created for you:
www.MyScottishHeart.com
. And if you’d like free autographed bookplates for any of my novels, simply contact me through my website or by mail:

You’ll find my photos of Stirling on Pinterest at
www.Pinterest.com/LizCurtisHiggs
and on Facebook at
www.Facebook.com/MyScottishHeart
.

This holy season and always, may your heart overflow with the joy of knowing, loving, and serving the One whose birth we celebrate. Until we meet again—whether in person, online, or across the page—you truly are a blessing!

Sift confectioners’ sugar, cornstarch, and flour together in a bowl. Add softened butter, using your hands to knead the mixture into dough. Wrap dough in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for no longer than 30 minutes.

Press cold dough into the bottom of a greased 8 × 8 pan (round or square; glass is best). Bake at 325° for 30 minutes or until the edges are
very
lightly browned.

Sprinkle granulated sugar across the top. Cool completely, then cut into 8 servings.